


The Cauldron of Ceridwen (part 1)

by Zaadi



Series: Alternate Third Series [9]
Category: Merlin (BBC), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic, Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-02 23:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12736791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaadi/pseuds/Zaadi
Summary: Arthur and Merlin have recently returned to Camelot, after months away serving incognito in the kingdom of Cameliard, where magic is legal. Things are not quite finished for Merlin, however: Blaise, Cameliard's royal physician and sorcerer, arrives in Camelot to bring Merlin back to Cameliard in order to fulfill a mandate from a high priestess. That same night, Alvarr also infiltrates Camelot, seeking Morgana's help in finding a spell of the famous and powerful sorceress Ceridwen.





	The Cauldron of Ceridwen (part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> After the second series finale, 'The Last Dragonlord,' I decided to write my own third series. I managed to finish half of it before the official third series began. The rest, so far, has been slow going (and I thank anyone who's stuck around). This story took forever, partly because that's how long it took me to realize I was writing a two-parter, which I'm posting as two separate stories. I've done my utmost the prevent canon-lockout, so reading the previous stories isn't necessary. That being said, I didn't want my Alternate Third Series to have interchangeable episodes, so there is a progression from one story to the next. I draw my original characters from Arthurian legend, but as far as the BBC show goes, I only worry about canon from the first two series. So if a character showed up after second series, and I have a character with the same name, they are different people. Thanks and enjoy.

**3.9 The Cauldron of Ceridwen**

**Part 1**

 

* * *

 

Merlin sat on his pillow, still fully dressed, a magic book propped open against his raised knees. As he poured over its contents, an insistent voice vibrated inside his head:

_Merlin_.

Blaise’s voice. Merlin glanced at the closed door of his room, at the closed shutters of his window, knowing full well that Blaise was not summoning him from Gaius’s chambers, nor from the outside night. The glance was anxious instinct, for if Blaise were caught in Camelot, he would be executed.

Merlin relaxed his clenched fingers, indulging in the hope that he’d imagined things; the hour was late, the book was one he’d borrowed from Blaise—without permission; perhaps sleep-starved guilt was manifesting.

_Merlin, get out here!_

Merlin bolted to his feet. Blaise was angry—but Merlin was too worried to care. _Where are you?_ he asked mentally as he slid the book under his bed and snatched the dark grey coat he’d received in Cameliard, where he’d been Blaise’s apprentice. Merlin hadn’t worn the coat in the two weeks since he and Arthur, and nine of Arthur’s knights, had returned to Camelot—but now he slipped it on like second skin.

_By the North Door._

_Are you insane?_ Merlin snuffed the candles in his room with a thought—the flames vanished simultaneously—and quietly shut his door, tiptoeing past Gaius. He rushed through the empty midnight streets wondering how Blaise had entered Camelot unseen. _Why are you in Camelot?_ he asked.

No answer.

_Blaise?_

Still nothing.

Merlin ran.

As far as most knew, the North Door was simply a passageway inside the double-thick wall that separated the opulent, fortified housing of the nobility from the lower town. Blaise had gotten far. Perhaps too far, for the North Door was also one terminus of a concealed passage—known only to a select few—that led directly to the royal residences. A guardroom sat inside the wall, between the lower door and the upper door, and hid the passage entrance. Two guards and a viciously trained dog were supposed to ensure that all three thresholds remained un-encroached.

As Merlin neared the area, he slowed, trying to spot Blaise without drawing the attention of the night watch—for patrols were frequent these days, on the lookout for sorcerers. But before he could get his bearings, a hand clamped over his mouth and pulled him down behind a barley cart.

Blaise crouched in waiting. “Let’s go,” he hissed.

Caradoc released her grip on Merlin. She wore all black, her dark hair tied at the nape of her neck, and a purple stone pendant that swung at her breast as she peered around the edge of the cart.

“Clear,” she whispered.

“What, are you trying to kidnap me?” Merlin joked.

Blaise buffed Merlin’s ear. “I teach you magic, or Cameliard suffers, remember?” he seethed. He glanced about—Caradoc was already pressed against the wall, blending into the shadows beside the closed and locked North Door.

“Has something happened to Cameliard?” Merlin asked. “Has it become desolate with sand and perpetual dusk?”

Blaise shot Merlin a look that could have withered the rain.

“Ninaeve knows my destiny is with Arthur,” Merlin continued, more passionately, trying to make Blaise understand. “She won’t hurt Cameliard because she knows I belong in Camelot.”

Blaise ignored Merlin; he faced the door and his eyes flashed gold. The now unlocked door swung open and Caradoc raised the pommel of her sword, ready to hit the guard who came to investigate.

Blaise grabbed Merlin’s ear and towed him toward the door. “You may leave Cameliard when Ninaeve says you may leave—don’t presume you know the mind—”

Caradoc raised her hand in warning—no guard had come to investigate the mysteriously opened door. Merlin and Blaise hurried to her side and she peered carefully around the corner: a dead knight and a sleeping dog lay in the corridor. Noise came from the guardroom and all three ran forward. Caradoc tried to keep Blaise and Merlin behind her, but Merlin’s pride of home—and his curiosity—urged him ahead of her. He peeked into the guardroom and saw Alvarr, a sorcerer who’d infiltrated Camelot the year before, pulling open a shelf that had been built onto the door in order to disguise it. The supplies stacked on the shelves had been thrown to the floor, where the second guard also lay dead—stabbed in the back by a young brunette peasant woman, whom Merlin had never seen before. She wore a faded green dress and a tight brown bodice that prominently revealed her cleavage, and she was wiping her hands and knife on the dead guard’s mantle.

“Alvarr,” Caradoc exhaled his name.

Merlin looked at Caradoc in surprise at the same moment the young woman finished, standing up to face Merlin—she hissed; Alvarr turned—in a smooth, well-practiced move, he pushed his hand forward, barking a short spell—Caradoc pulled Merlin aside, beyond the brunt of the spell’s force, and the only damage was the slammed door.

“You know Alvarr?” Merlin demanded.

Caradoc ignored him and threw her weight against the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Blaise,” she said with plaintive urgency, but Blaise had gone outside. Bells clanged as the alarm sounded—soon guards would be everywhere. Blaise returned and grabbed Merlin.

“Let Uther deal with Alvarr,” he said, heading toward the lower exit.

“No!” Merlin and Caradoc exclaimed simultaneously. Merlin pulled away from Blaise and motioned Caradoc aside. He put the flat of his hand on the door and internally recited a spell. He felt the power flow through him; he felt the door unlock; gently he pushed it open.

“Be careful,” he said as Caradoc rushed past him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Blaise demanded to Merlin.

“To head him off,” Merlin replied, running out the upper exit and toward the castle, leaving Blaise either to accompany Caradoc, or huddle with the dead.

~ 

 

_Teach her._

_No._

_She’s not evil, Ninianne, she’s lost; she needs direction, not condemna—_

_The Cauldron, Elayne—don’t get selfish, especially in the face of this dis—_

The clanging bells ripped Morgana from her restless sleep. She clasped the golden bracelet around her wrist as if it were her only refuge, and looked around, swearing she’d heard voices. But her chambers were empty and the only sound was the alarm. She pulled on a robe and rushed to a window: the streets were deserted except for the patrols racing by in tight double lines.

She heard her chamber door burst open and spun in fear, instinctively reaching behind her for something—anything to defend herself; but her terror subsided when she recognized Alvarr leaning against the closed door. A woman had also entered, and was glaring at him.

“Are you insane?” Morgana demanded as the woman ran to the window and discreetly peered out.

“I need your help,” Alvarr said.

“Then you’d better explain quickly and get out of here.”

“We need a book of Queen Igraine’s,” the woman turned away from the window.

“Why?” Morgana asked.

“You said the Lady was an ally and worth the risk,” the woman sneered at Alvarr.

“Be sure to tell the guards that,” Morgana retorted. “I’ll be quaking under the bed.”

“Morgana, please,” Alvarr said softly. “Igraine was a friend to magic, and we think she recorded a spell that can aid us against Uther.”

“What kind of spell?” Morgana asked.

“A very powerful spell—a spell of the witch Ceridwen.”

“Ceridwen’s a legend,” Morgana protested.

“She was very real,” Alvarr said. “I should know—I am the last of her line.”

Morgana paused in awe, and the woman gave Alvarr a strange, evaluating look as he continued.

“The spell is mine by right.”

“What makes you think Igraine’s had it?”

“Before joining my people, Bridget was a maid for Queen Morcades.”

“Igraine’s sister,” Bridget elaborated. “I overheard things.”

“We have reason to believe Igraine was trusted with this spell,” Alvarr said.

“Uther burned all the books containing magic,” Morgana pointed out.

“Uther kept everything Igraine had,” Bridget countered. “He worships her, dead or alive.”

Morgana pondered Bridget for a moment, wondering if it was simply fear that fueled such anger. “I’ll do what I can,” she finally agreed. Bridget did not seem satisfied, but Alvarr cut off any objection she might have made.

“We would not have come if we weren’t certain,” Alvarr beamed at Morgana.

“How will I contact you if I find it?” she asked.

“How are we going to get out of here?” Bridget demanded acridly, peeking out the window. She had barely finished speaking when someone rapped loudly on the door.

“Lady Morgana!”

“Hide,” Morgana said, but Bridget was already crawling under the bed; Alvarr stashed himself behind Morgana’s wardrobe screen, and Morgana grabbed a dagger. She opened the door: Sir Cadoc and Merlin entered.

“I have orders to attend you, my lady, until this is over,” Cadoc bowed his head to her, but the motion caused him dizziness—he tried to recover without revealing the lapse and was only moderately successful.

“Orders?” Morgana asked suspiciously, watching Merlin, who was looking around, though he did not go so far as to physically search the room.

“I do not question the King’s concern for your safety,” Cadoc answered politely. “But if _you_ wish to, you are bolder than I.”

Morgana did not take her eyes off Merlin until he stopped surveying her chambers and returned her stare. She wanted to ask Sir Cadoc why Merlin was there, but when she turned to him, he was holding the back of his neck, wincing slightly.

“You’re injured,” she realized.

“It’s no—” Cadoc started but Merlin interrupted:

“He was attacked,” Merlin watched Morgana intently, waiting for a reaction. “In the corridor. At his post.”

Morgana remained blank.

“And you raised the alarm?” she asked Cadoc. He shook his head—a mistake.

“He was unconscious,” Merlin stated.

“But not killed,” she retorted. To Cadoc she said, “You need to see Gaius—I’ll be fine—I’ll bolt the door.”

“Lady Morgana, I’m not—”

Cadoc whirled suddenly, provoked by a small noise. He had to steady himself again, but his sword was up, and he advanced quietly towards Morgana’s bed. Merlin, sure the sound was Alvarr, watched—guarded against—Morgana. Cadoc bent his knees to gaze beneath the bed, but another, more deliberate noise—Alvarr stepping out from behind the screen—drew him upright. Alvarr gave neither Cadoc nor Merlin the chance to react, blasting Cadoc instantly.

And Merlin’s last sensations that night were the sight of a strange woman scrambling out from under the bed, and the brunt of Cadoc’s chainmail against his face.

 

~*~

Merlin woke up feeling quite rested. He was in his own bed, still wearing last night’s shirt and trousers—though his feet were bare—and he didn’t hurt at all, no matter where he checked. After accepting his good health, he threw on his shoes, grabbed his old brown jacket, tattering more with each year, and hurried into Gaius’s adjoining chamber.

“Good morning,” Gaius said, putting a plate of food on the table.

Merlin paused, skeptical—Gaius was acting too normal.

“Yes, last night was a disaster,” Gaius said. “Now eat.”

Merlin glanced at the food, but made for the door. “I have to find Arthur.”

“He’s searching for Alvarr,” Gaius said.

“And he needs my help—did Cadoc mention the woman helping Alvarr?”

“Morgana or the other one?” Gaius replied.

Merlin hesitated—Gaius was getting at something. Circumspectly. He didn’t want to alienate Gaius, but Arthur needed him right now. He shifted, and his stomach growled, betraying his hunger. Reluctantly he sat down to eat.

“How is Cadoc?” Merlin asked after a mouthful.

“Sir Cadoc was more severely wounded than you, and hasn’t been able to speak much,” Gaius said. “He’ll recover, but he needs rest.”

“So who told Arthur about the woman? It couldn’t have been Morgana.”

“I don’t know Merlin, but Morgana did raise the question of what you were doing up and about so late.”

“Am I under suspicion?” Merlin asked.

“No—Arthur claims you were waiting on him.”

Merlin seized the explanation: “He wanted something to eat, and you know how he gets when he’s hungry.”

“And Blaise?” Gaius asked.

“Who?”

“Merlin,” Gaius was losing his patience, “Uther is already on the rampage for sorcerers, and he considers last night an attack on Morgana—this is no time for secrets.”

“Has Blaise been captured?” Merlin asked, forgetting his food and Alvarr.

“Good, you’re finally comprehending the severity of this situation,” Gaius said.

“I know the situation,” Merlin snapped. “I’m sorry,” he recomposed himself.

“It’s all right,” Gaius said. “Blaise hasn’t been caught yet, and as far as I know, Arthur is the only one looking for him. Discreetly.”

“So, if you saw Blaise . . . ” Merlin said tentatively.

“I think we should worry about Alvarr,” Gaius said.

Merlin wanted to press the issue of Blaise’s safety and whereabouts, but a strange woman’s voice answered Gaius:

“Alvarr has the Cauldron of Ceridwen.”

Both men turned their heads like startled falcons.

She stood on the steps leading to Merlin’s room, wearing a deep-red dress and commanding posture. Gaius twitched with recognition.

“You’re Ninianne,” Merlin guessed with awe.

“And you are the once and future fool,” she replied. “He plans to use it.”

“The Cauldron—” Gaius objected.

“Is very real,” Ninianne said.

“I was going to say that the Cauldron alone won’t help him,” Gaius said.

“What else does he need?” Merlin asked. “It’s in Camelot, I assume.”

No response. Gaius and Ninianne stared implacably at each other until Ninianne said, “This is no time for secrets, Gaius.”

Gaius said nothing. Ninianne walked down the steps—Merlin had an urge to back into a corner. “Alvarr managed to kill a very powerful sorcerer for this,” she said.

“And conjure decades-old rumors,” Gaius said.

_Indeed_ , Ninianne’s face seemed to say.

“Is this a decades-old conversation,” Merlin muttered, feeling left in the dark.

“How did Alvarr kill him?” Gaius asked after a moment.

“That is a question,” Ninianne said. “Perhaps Alvarr had the help of a dark power. How he killed Gansguoter is my concern. Stopping him is yours,” she tossed the last comment to Merlin and turned, vanishing in a blink. Merlin felt a shift in the air at her disappearance—subtle, intuitive—a sensation he couldn’t be certain he hadn’t imagined. A sensation gone as quickly as Ninianne. Merlin gave up trying to examine it and turned to Gaius:

“What did she mean by secrets?”

But Gaius just stared at the empty space where Ninianne had been.

“Gaius?”

“Go find Arthur,” Gaius said, picking up Merlin’s plate. “You have a sorcerer to catch.”

Merlin wanted to ask more, but Gaius was deeply bothered—so half reluctantly, half gladly, he went to find Arthur.

 ~

 

Arthur was in Uther’s chambers, where Uther presided over an intimate court. Four guards were posted at the door, two on the inside, two on the out; they let Merlin pass only at Arthur’s gesture.

“No sign,” Arthur reported to Uther’s back. “But every gate of Camelot is guarded—he won’t escape.”

Uther stared out a window, silently contemplating the news as he watched the people below move about, staring apprehensively over their own shoulders.

“Unless he’s already gone,” Morgana said. She sat in one of Uther’s ornate chairs, calm and queenly, until she noticed Merlin watching her. She lowered her eyes and bit her lip and grasped Gwen’s hand. Gwen, standing dutifully beside her, returned Morgana’s grasp and stroked her hair.

“Alvarr can’t disappear into thin air,” Arthur responded.

“How do you know?” Morgana asked.

“Because he wouldn’t have needed the North Door if he could,” Arthur said.

“How did he know about that passage?” Uther asked, not moving.

“I doubt he stumbled across it,” Arthur said.

“Maybe he had a mirror, like Erbin,” Morgana offered.

“Or maybe,” Arthur hesitated.

“We have a traitor,” Uther said gravely, turning around. He surveyed those gathered, emphasizing the severity of such a possibility. “Alvarr had help,” he continued. “More than just this woman. Look beyond the city—scour the land,” he said to Arthur, “and arrest anyone about whom you have the slightest doubt.”

Arthur bowed to his father; he turned toward Morgana as if to say something, but her eyes were downcast so he merely nodded at Gwen; he left, Merlin fast on his heels.

“Do you really think there’s a traitor in Camelot?” Merlin asked once they were alone in the corridor.

“The King believes so.”

“But what do _you_ think?”

Arthur paused, trying to disentangle the knots in his mind. “I think the woman could be the traitor. Except, how _she_ knew—did she look like a noblewoman to you?”

“No, she looked like a maidservant. How do you know about the woman?”

“Caradoc.”

“Right,” Merlin said. Of course.

“She thought Alvarr would attack the King, so she hid outside his chambers. When Alvarr didn’t show, and the castle filled with knights, she found me. Privately,” he added quickly—a warning to Merlin to keep Caradoc’s existence a secret.

Merlin nodded. “So, since only a privileged few know about the Door, we start with them.”

“Not ‘we’ Merlin, me. You need to find Blaise and return to Cameliard.”

“I _need_ to be here. Alvarr has magic, and so do many of his followers.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress, Merlin,” Arthur said irritably. “Cameliard is in danger—and you’re not exactly safe, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Fine,” Merlin said flatly. “But won’t it look suspicious if the Prince’s servant suddenly disappears as soon as the King suspects treachery?”

Arthur begrudgingly mulled this over.  

“In the middle of a search for a sorcerer?” Merlin added.

“Fine. But stay out of the way and don’t do anything stupid.”

“I never do,” Merlin smiled, elated by his success as he walked at Arthur’s side.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Arthur halted.

“With you,” Merlin said.

“Why would I need my servant when I question the nobility?”

“I can help.”

“I realize this is difficult for you to accept, Merlin, but I can do things for myself.”

Merlin opened his mouth, a retort ready to spring forth—

“ _Go,_ ” Arthur ordered. “Do your job. Your actual job, if you even remember what that is.”

 

_My job_ , Merlin thought, skulking toward Arthur’s chambers. Arthur knew nothing about Merlin’s duty—his Destiny—why bother sometimes—(Merlin slammed the door to Arthur’s chambers, buffeting the guards outside)—if Arthur insisted on thwarting—

Merlin stopped short: Blaise sat at Arthur’s table, staring at the cold heap of ashes in the fireplace.

“You’re here,” Merlin said—the first thought that came to him. Blaise, immobile, gave no indication that he noticed Merlin’s presence. Merlin was about to clear his throat when Blaise spoke:

“No one but the Prince and his personal servant should be entering his room.”

“But Arthur doesn’t know you’re here.”

“No—he was gone when I entered,” Blaise kept his eyes on the soot-coated stones of the fireplace. “He must have reacted quickly to the alarm bells.”

“The guards,” Merlin glanced at the doors.

“Showed up this morning,” Blaise grimaced.

“Where’s Cara?” Merlin asked, sitting down in one of several ornate chairs scattered around the long table (which Merlin thought could easily accommodate six people—but the chairs were for Arthur’s moods, not company).

“I assume Cara’s doing what Cara does,” Blaise replied. He finally looked at Merlin. “Is there news of Alvarr?”

Merlin studied Blaise. “Alvarr’s not been caught,” he ventured carefully.

“Damn.”

“You want him captured?” Merlin said in surprise. “Why?”

“He’s a power-hungry tick,” Blaise said. “Of course I want him captured—I want him executed.”

“You really don’t like him?”

Blaise looked at Merlin as though inspecting an actual tick. “Why would you assume I like him?”

“I-I didn’t,” Merlin stuttered. “Cara recognized him.”

“And did nothing to help him—since you didn’t notice.”

“I noticed,” Merlin said defensively. “But,” again, he hesitated.

“But?” Blaise prompted. But Merlin didn’t know how to finish, so Blaise did: “But Alvarr has magic, which is permitted in Cameliard.”

Merlin fortified his gaze against Blaise’s scorn.

“Merlin, please tell me you don’t always jump to conclusions like that.”

“I wasn’t jumping—he uses magic, and he hates Uther, just like—”

“Drawing conclusions based on surface similarities _is_ jumping to them,” Blaise interjected. “Now, any word on what Alvarr’s after? If he’d tried for Uther, Cara would have caught him.”

Maybe he’s trickier than Cara, Merlin thought—and rethought—it was vindictive and unhelpful, and Alvarr and Morgana were too dangerous.

“He went to Morgana’s chambers,” Merlin decided to trust Blaise. “Probably to have her steal something for him.”

“Based on what?” Blaise said.

“Based on, that’s what he did last time.”

“What did he steal?” Blaise asked, leaning toward Merlin with interest now.

“The Crystal of Neyetid,” Merlin replied. “But I don’t think he’s after it again.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not strong enough to use it,” Merlin said, provoking Blaise’s impatience again; Merlin felt like a child—but he did not want to get into what the Great Dragon had revealed, so he opted for the part he knew Blaise would believe: “Ninianne appeared this morning. She said Alvarr has the Cauldron of Ceridwen.”

“Then he’s after a spell,” Blaise said, nonchalantly accepting Ninianne’s involvement. “One that will give him all the power he could ever lust for. Where is the Lady Morgana?”

“Uther’s chambers. It’s the only place she feels safe. She says.”

“Have you told Arthur what you know?”

“I didn’t need to—there was a witness—a knight. Morgana had to admit Alvarr was in her chambers.”

“But have you told Arthur about the Cauldron?”

“I don’t exactly know anything about the Cauldron, do I? Do you?”

“There’s a story about it,” Blaise said. “And about the feud between Ceridwen and Taliesin that resulted—when you say Ninianne ‘appeared’, where was this?”

“In Gaius’s chambers. Where my own room is.”

“Was Gaius there? Did he say nothing?”

“He told me as much as you’re telling me now.”

“So he told you that Balinore was the last of Ceridwen’s line?”

“What?” Merlin asked. “My father—I’m the last of Ceridwen’s line?” he digested this revelation.

“Unless there are hidden bastards running around, which I suppose is always a possibility.”

Blaise said it neutrally, as if merely making an observation; Merlin was too preoccupied to read any insult into the words anyway, and his silence drew Blaise’s scrutiny.

“If I were looking for the spell, Uther’s chambers is a good place to start,” Blaise said, pulling Merlin out of his reverie.

“Uther has the spell?” Merlin said doubtfully.

“Queen Igraine had the spell,” Blaise said. “Maybe Uther knew, maybe he didn’t; but when she died, he gathered everything about her into himself.”

“Morgana’s in Uther’s chambers,” Merlin said darkly, flying out the door as the implications overwhelmed him; Blaise tried to grab him, but Merlin moved too fast. Blaise would not leave the safety of Arthur’s chambers, and Morgana, it seemed, was two steps ahead.

 ~

 

“How long are we going to stay here?” Gwen asked.

Morgana meandered silently around the room, running an occasional finger over a chest or along the wood of one of Uther’s wardrobes. She paused in front of a chessboard, its pieces arranged perfectly, waiting for a game to begin. The board sat upon a small table, which suited the board so well, it must have been made for it.

“Where else is there?” Morgana asked, half to herself. She picked up the black king and noticed a small shadow on the board where the piece had sat. For years: the shadow was not from dust, but from the stationary piece blocking the sunlight. “You’re right, Gwen,” Morgana replaced the king, which had been routinely polished. “I can’t stay here forever. I’ll just feel safer once all this is over.”

“I’m sure Arthur will catch Alvarr,” Gwen said.

“Arthur will catch Alvarr,” Morgana repeated to herself, not liking the unusual weight of the words. “What about the King?” she asked Gwen suddenly.

“The King? What do you mean?”

“You said that Arthur will catch Alvarr, not that Uther would.”

“Well, I mean,” Gwen stammered, “Uther will, but Arthur’s the champion, I mean, Uther through Arthur—”

“It’s all right, Gwen. Arthur is the one running about, isn’t he?”

“To be fair, Uther did have to walk all the way to his throne today,” Gwen ventured, getting a genuine laugh from Morgana—a returning humor Gwen welcomed against Morgana’s dourness of late. Gwen dared hope it was a breakthrough, but then Merlin strode into the room and Morgana darkened again.

“Did the guards just let you pass?” Morgana demanded.

“Gwen,” Merlin said, not taking his eyes of Morgana, “would you give us a moment?”

“ _Stay_ ,” Morgana ordered. “Unless there’s a reason you can’t speak in front of Gwen?”

“It’s a private matter, Gwen,” Merlin concentrated on Morgana. “Please.”

“You and I don’t have private matters,” Morgana snapped. “Now get out.”

“Gwen,” Merlin still stared at Morgana, “would you go tell Arthur that I found what he was looking for, and it’s waiting in his chambers.”

Gwen glanced uncertainly from Merlin to Morgana. “Arthur might be angry if you don’t tell him yourself,” she finally said.

“Since you are his servant,” Morgana added, her ire growing with each passing second. “Gwen, show Merlin the door—since he’s too stupid to find it himself,” she turned her back on them, staring resolutely out a window.

Gwen opened the door for Merlin. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

“Nothing,” Merlin insisted quietly. “She’s still mad about the Morgause thing.”

“But—”

“It’s nothing, Gwen, really. Just don’t leave her alone.”

Gwen smiled meekly and shut the door as Merlin walked away; Morgana remained at the window, more closed off than ever.

 

_Why does_ he _get free rein?_

_It’s his place, Elayne._

_The Great Merlin. And the rest of us just have to accept the consequences of his actions._

_Elayne—_

_He thinks Destiny is the answer to everything, Ninianne—an excuse for anything._

_And you think Morgana is any wiser?_

_I think she’s doing the best she can with what little she’s been given._

~

 

Merlin paused at the end of the corridor. What now? He glanced behind him at the door of Uther’s chambers—unable to speak to Morgana, his only hope was to capture Alvarr before Morgana could give him the spell—if she’d found it, that is; there was the chance she hadn’t yet, especially if Gwen had stayed by her side since last night. He had to find Arthur.

Since only a handful of people—the King, the council, a few trusted servants—knew about the North Door, there were few places Arthur could be at the moment. Merlin ran, passing the numerous knights stationed at the doors of even the poorest noble. He checked Sir Oswald, one of Uther’s council, and was gruffly told by Oswald’s servant that Arthur had already left. Then he ran toward Ulfius’s chambers, not knowing if Arthur was going in any sort of order. However, Ulfius was said to have served Uther longer than any other—longer even than Gaius—to have served at least one of Uther’s brothers as well—so Arthur would probably show Ulfius a special courtesy, which, as far as Merlin could tell, meant exchanging pleasantries first and prolonging the interview.

Arthur had indeed spoken to Ulfius, but had departed. Must’ve started here, Merlin thought. Where next? He couldn’t run about haphazardly forever, hoping to trip over Arthur by chance. The King. Eventually, Arthur would report to Uther, so Merlin decided to head for the Great Hall.

At which point, he stumbled upon Arthur, who was conferring quietly with a servant in the middle of a long, deserted corridor.

“Arthur!” Merlin ran to join them. The servant carried a small bundle of firewood that hid his face from afar. Her face. Merlin recognized Caradoc when she shifted to look at him. Momentarily taken aback, he nonetheless continued with Arthur. “Do we know how Alvarr found out about the North Door?”

“No,” Arthur said. “Unless you’ve divined it.”

“What? No,” Merlin said, staring at Caradoc: she was dressed as a man, with old shoes, tattered trousers, a faded shirt, and had her hair tucked tightly beneath a cap. Up close, she was not so convincing.

“Too bad,” Arthur muttered. He turned to Caradoc. “And see, you are obvious.”

“Merlin knows me,” Caradoc said.

“Couldn’t you find a woman’s dress to wear?” Merlin asked.

“A woman has no cause to be in the Prince’s chambers. At least, not during the day,” she replied.

“No one but my servant should ever be entering my chambers alone,” Arthur said irritably. “Am I focusing on the wrong problem?”

“Your men are capable,” Caradoc insisted. “I’m better. And your chambers _are_ guarded. By Sir Madoc.”

“Not impressed,” Arthur said to Caradoc.

“Arthur, speaking of your chambers,” Merlin leaned confidentially close, “Blaise is waiting for you.”

“Yes, Merlin. Caradoc told me.”

 

~*~

Uther flew into his chambers, the door held wide by a quick and ready guard. Morgana rose from the chair by the window, from which she’d been staring while Gwen braided her hair. The half-done braid fell from Gwen’s startled hands.

“Check every corner,” Uther commanded.

Immediately behind him, Arthur moved left as Merlin went right.

“Are you all right” Uther asked Morgana.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she said, glancing at Arthur, who was systematically checking every space where someone could hide. “What’s going on?” she noticed Merlin, ostensibly checking for intruders, also examined objects in Uther’s chambers, and peeked inside cupboards and drawers.

“We’ve been idle and it’s made us dull,” Uther said. Gaius was the last to enter, and as he did, Uther signaled for privacy. The guard moved back into the corridor and shut the door.

“We know what Alvarr wants,” Arthur said. “And it’s in the King’s chambers.”

“It’s possible that it’s in the King’s chambers,” Gaius said, clasping his hands patiently, as a way of rooting himself in front of the door. “We are dealing with a rumor, after all.”

“So is Alvarr,” Arthur said as he finished his search, confident that no one was hiding. “A rumor he believes, and is acting on.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Morgana said, watching Merlin still poke around. “Why did he sneak into my chambers then?”

Good question, Merlin seemed to say, glancing briefly at her—Morgana was certain she was the only one even aware of his presence. Arthur was already speaking:

“He probably panicked when the alarm sounded. Sire,” he said to Uther, “the North Door and the spell probably came from the same source; if we send messengers to anyone who knew the Queen—”

“Rumors about your mother are irrelevant,” Uther snapped. “And beneath you. How Alvarr knows about the North Door is a concern for after we catch him—which we do tonight.”

The matter settled, Arthur could say nothing further.

“You think he’s going to risk returning,” Morgana asked. Gwen gripped her hand, hoping to comfort her.

“He failed to get what he’s after—he has to come,” Uther said, as reassuringly as such news would permit. “And we’ll be waiting,” he added.

“Here?” Morgana asked. “Alvarr’s going to risk everything to steal a magic spell from _you?_ ”

“You’ll be safe in your chambers,” Uther stated. “Arthur will see to it.”

Arthur took Morgana’s elbow and whispered, “Don’t push this, Morgana.”

Morgana bit her tongue and reluctantly let Arthur escort her out of Uther’s chambers, followed by Merlin and Gwen. As soon as they were beyond the ears of the guards, she said, “So the Great Uther Pendragon hoards magic spells.”

“Morgana,” Arthur warned, releasing her arm.

“Come on, Arthur,” Morgana continued. “You don’t really think your father is a raging hypocrite—I could accept it—but you? What spell could he possibly have?”

“None, Morgana,” Arthur swerved to face her. “My mother had it—may have had it, I don’t know. You can’t push it, not on that—no one can. My mother is not up for discussion.”

Regret and sadness and frustration walked with him as he continued down the corridor. Morgana watched, unsure of what to say—or do—thinking bitterly that Uther cared little about the pain his silence caused his only son. She heard the soft steps of Merlin and Gwen approaching, and hurried forward—not to catch up to Arthur per se, but so as not walk next to Merlin. Or Gwen.

And still in his chambers, Uther leaned heavy fists on a table. Gaius had returned to his self-appointed station in front of the door.

“I always thought the Cauldron of Ceridwen was a legend,” Uther said.

“Repeat any story often enough and the embellishments will outweigh the facts,” Gaius said.

“So it’s true?”

“Yes, Sire. And Alvarr has it.”

“And if Arthur’s informant is telling the truth, Alvarr thinks the Cauldron needs a spell once possessed by my Queen.”

“You don’t know?” Gaius asked.

“No. But I doubt it, given her opinions on such matters—what worries me is how certain Arthur is of this information.”

“If a spell is still among Igraine’s things, it would be best to destroy it,” Gaius said.

“It worries me,” Uther repeated more emphatically, “how Arthur has this information. _You_ say the Cauldron is real—and you are also certain that Alvarr has it.”

“I was told in confidence as much,” Gaius replied.

“By whom?”

“Given Alvarr’s successes, this person wishes to remain anonymous.” Gaius hoped his words sounded reasonable. “However, telling both the Prince and the King’s Physician is a strange risk to take.”

“Then Alvarr must have more than one traitor on his hands,” Uther concluded. “Traitors who can’t—or won’t—tell us where he is.”

“Do you suspect a trap?” Gaius asked, unfazed by the prospect.

“Possibly,” Uther said, half to himself—he did not believe in a trap either.

“You think Arthur’s been told something more about Igraine,” Gaius stated, and Uther closed his eyes, confirming Gaius’s guess.

“Incomplete information is as good as any lie,” Uther said—but he spoke to the air in front of him, as if addressing every dust mite. “Arthur can’t possibly understand the whole story—even people who were there . . . . It’s best if Arthur remain untouched by the entire matter.”

Gaius bowed his head and left. Uther collapsed into a chair by the chessboard and picked up the white queen, enfolding it in the palm of his hand and pressing his mournful fist to his lips. He inhaled a long-vanished scent and pondered the nothing hovering over the waiting game.

 

“He’s not going to come,” Morgana said as Arthur checked under her bed. “Not after last night, and you know it, I can tell.”

“We still have something he wants, Morgana,” Arthur said, searching her room, making sure it was safe—but the only person besides the two of them was Gwen, standing as inconspicuously as she could by the door.

“Like the Crystal of Neyetid,” Morgana said.

“He’s lost interest in that,” Arthur said.

“How do you know? How could you—you only know what happened last time.”

“It’s nice to know you believe in me. It just so happens that I’ve made some very well-informed friends since last time. Trust me, Morgana, Alvarr wants this spell—he needs this spell, and one way or another, he’ll have to come and get it.”

 ~

 

Merlin stabbed the food on his plate. Though hungry, he was too irritated to eat—Arthur had refused to let him help in capturing Alvarr.

“What is the Cauldron of Ceridwen?” Merlin asked Gaius.

Across the table, Gaius chewed thoughtfully. “Have you never heard of Ceridwen, Merlin?”

“There was an old man in my village who used to call on her—I thought she was a forest spirit, or a goddess.”

“She was very powerful,” Gaius agreed.

“I’m her descendent, aren’t I?”

“It’s possible. I don’t have such lineages memorized.”

“Did you used to?”

“According to the story,” Gaius replied instead, “Ceridwen had a son who was neither intelligent nor handsome.”

“He was stupid and ugly.”

Ignoring Merlin’s interjection, Gaius continued: “Ceridwen feared for her son’s prospects in life, so she built her Cauldron and boiled a potion of Inspiration and Science. Assisting her was a boy named Gwion, whose job was to stir the Cauldron. He stopped paying attention for a moment, and three drops of the potion splashed on his hand. Naturally, he brought his hand to his mouth to soothe the burn, ingesting the potion. Unfortunately, only three drops were good, the rest was poison.”

“I guess Ceridwen’s son didn’t get it, then,” Merlin said.

“No. Ceridwen had to learn to love him as he was. Let’s just hope you aren’t descended from that son.”

“How many did she have?” Merlin pressed. Gaius had never been so forthcoming about his family before—Alvarr could wait.

“Two, and a daughter.”

“What happened to Gwion?”

“He became Taliesin. Another renowned sorcerer.”

“How many renowned sorcerers are there?”

“There used to be many reputed for their power.”

“Until Uther’s Purge.”

“If Alvarr succeeds,” Gaius prodded some bread on his plate, “even you may not be powerful enough to face him.”

“He won’t come tonight,” Merlin said. “He doesn’t have to—Morgana’s here.”

“Which makes two people you have to stop.”

~

 

Morgana dreamed:

A woman and a baby were in her chambers; she didn’t recognize any of the furniture, but she knew they were the same chambers she now occupied. Candles and lamps flickered throughout, and she felt the chill night air prickling past the curtains.

But Morgana was not in the room—she was watching from someplace above, outside, around—as though she were the ceiling beams and the window glass—simultaneously in every corner, invisible. And as Morgana watched—as she knew that she was watching, merely observing—she felt the tug of déjà vu—an intense, seeping certainty that she was observing her own life. The woman reminded her of the witch Elayne, black-eyed and raven-haired, but her moon-like paleness contrasted with Elayne’s sun-kissed fairness.

The woman pondered the night, leaning her face against the curtain of one window. The baby lay on the bed, wriggling with delight, exploring the range of her arms and legs, even though she was still too young to move anywhere on her own.

The baby cracked a giggle and the woman turned. She stared at the baby and the baby stared back and there was a knock at the door. _Enter,_ the woman said; a tall dark-skinned man came in, young but not a youth, his black hair cut short and his face beardless. _Gaius asked me to deliver this,_ he said, holding up a small vial. He put it on the closest table and unconsciously wiped his hands on his bright green robes.

_Your hands are always ink-stained, Blaise,_ the woman said. Blaise smiled: _As a swordsman’s are always calloused, my Lady._ The woman did not move from her station. _Thank you, Blaise,_ she said and turned again to the window.

Blaise hesitated, half turned to leave, decided against it, and re-decided. _Lady Rhiannon_ , he finally said. Lady Rhiannon did not seem to hear him—she looked at her baby, still gleefully wriggling on the bed. _Lady Rhiannon,_ Blaise persisted, more confidently, _do the sleeping draughts help?_

Lady Rhiannon stared at Blaise—coldly, Morgana thought, feeling uneasy; Rhiannon was wary, evaluating, as though wondering if Blaise were trustworthy—and why should her mother not wonder, Morgana demanded—demanded wordlessly to an audience of only herself—and suffocated in the resounding silence of her own response, because why should the Lady Rhiannon—her mother—need someone to trust? But still Morgana dreamed:

_They help, yes, thank you, Blaise._

Blaise took one step towards her. _It’s just, are you sure you need to take a draught every night? Perhaps—if there were—if there is some deeper grief at the root of your sleeplessness . . ._

_If you mean my daughter Elayne,_ Rhiannon said curtly, _your concern is unnecessary._ Blaise looked relieved, but also unconvinced. _Thank you, Blaise,_ Rhiannon added kindly; she sighed—a private release—and at the same time Blaise sighed—a sign of having reached an impasse. Nonetheless, it was a shared moment and both smiled. _My Lady,_ Blaise bowed to leave.

_Blaise,_ Rhiannon stopped him, a sudden, subtle note of panic now in her voice. _Yes,_ Blaise said, but Rhiannon hesitated. Finally: _if you could see the future, and saw that someone—a youth or a child—could grow to be terrible, what would you do?_

_This is why I chose to be a physician and not a philosopher,_ Blaise said—but at the naked pain in Rhiannon’s eyes he sat down on the bed’s edge and considered the unmoving baby who immediately erupted into a flurry of motion at having been given his attention. _Nothing,_ Blaise smiled at the baby.

_I see Gaius is teaching you well._ The bitterness in Rhiannon’s voice stabbed Blaise, and he sat awkwardly, letting the baby grab his littlest finger and swing it around.

_Gaius would probably ask what you mean, “to be” terrible,_ Blaise said, thinking aloud. _Is anyone inherently evil? But,_ he looked up at Rhiannon, _you said “could,” not “would.” Surely you’ve noticed that I have little patience for magic and the thinking it inspires._

_Yes, Igraine is quite fond of you._ Again the bitterness.

_Prophecies are not knowledge, my Lady. I would do nothing because to do anything would be to act on fear, not information. There are many things each of us “could” be._

Rhiannon smiled sadly, but underneath, Morgana detected relief. Her mother picked her up and kissed her cheek, and Morgana felt some wetness—even through her dream—that could have been a tear. Or her mother’s lips. Or perhaps it was just her imagination imposing itself between this vision and the memory she was too young to have formed. _You are talented, Blaise_ , Rhiannon said, holding her daughter, _most of us are not so free. Please give my best wishes to the Queen on her little prince._

Blaise, jolted but not surprised, tread carefully. _The Queen has no son, no children,_ he said. _Igraine is not with child._

_Tonight she is._

Morgana wrenched out of the dream—she bolted upright, desperate to reorient herself. She recognized none of her furniture, but knew somehow that it was hers. Sweat trickled into her eyes and breath stalled in her throat. In a chair pulled near her bed sat Blaise, much older, bearded, wearing a blue as dark as the night. Concern gripped his face as he swayed forward. In one hand he held the golden bracelet Morgause had given her—that she had been wearing when she lay down to sleep—and his other hand he raised toward her, a gesture meant to assuage.

“Lady Morgana—”

Half a dozen guards swarmed into her chambers, threw Blaise to the ground—the bracelet rolling under her bed—and as one guard roughly bound Blaise’s hands behind his back, Morgana realized she was screaming.

 

~*~

Blaise wiggled his bare toes, tapping a rhythm on the wooden floor of the throne room. Only Merlin noticed, and wondered if it was a sign of impatience or a nervous habit. Most other eyes were on Arthur. The council, the knights stationed along the walls, Gwen, who’d snuck in among the servants of the few, select nobles present—they all watched Arthur argue for clemency: Blaise meant Camelot no harm, but had come to protect his own kingdom from the wrath of a Priestess.

“That does not sound like a Priestess,” Gaius said to Blaise.

“How would you know?” Blaise shot back.

“Where is Alvarr?” Uther demanded, the anger in his voice not matched by his eyes—Merlin would have called that look pity in another man, but in Uther it was wariness.

“I have no idea,” Blaise said.

“Alvarr would be executed in Cameliard,” Arthur interjected, hoping to renew his plea.

“What does Alvarr want with my ward?” Uther ignored him.

“I don’t know,” Blaise said.

“What were you doing in her chambers?” Gaius said.

“Paying a debt,” Blaise said, mostly to himself.

“At the cost of your own life?” Gaius said. “That’s some debt.”

“’At the cost of one’s own life’,” Blaise repeated. “Is that how you determine your loyalty, Gaius?”

Gaius stiffened.

“Enough,” Uther used the word to stab the air. “You were caught in my ward’s chambers and are a known practitioner of magic. You will be executed first thing in the morning.”

“Sire,” Arthur pleaded.

“Return him to the dungeons,” Uther said. The discussion was over.

 

“Of all the people I thought I could count on to _think!”_ Arthur fumed as he entered the cell in front of Blaise.

Merlin waited on the threshold of the cell. Blaise passed Arthur, ignoring the admonition—he stared instead at the lone wood bench, granted to some prisoners as a bed. Merlin glanced back, beyond Gaius (who wavered silently), to make sure the nearest guards—posted like statues at the end of the dungeon corridor—were too far away to overhear.

“What were you thinki—” Merlin tried—hearing the hopelessness in his own voice—as Arthur slammed his palm against the cell bars.

“ _Why_ , Blaise?” Arthur demanded.

“I needed to know what Alvarr wanted with Lady Morgana,” Blaise said quietly.

“’Needed?’” Merlin asked.

“Probably nothing,” Arthur said, as though Blaise could still be dissuaded from his act. “When you raised the alarm—”

“No, Arthur,” Blaise turned. “Raising the alarm didn’t force Alvarr to improvise—he ended up exactly where he intended to be. Why? What’s Lady Morgana to him?”

“What’s she to you?” Gaius asked, stepping closer.

“You think Alvarr tried to enchant Morgana?” Arthur asked Blaise.

“Perhaps. It would not be the first time he employed such tactics.”

“Morgana is not enchanted,” Merlin said.

“To what end?” Gaius asked Blaise.

“To rule,” Blaise replied, as though Alvarr’s plan were blatantly obvious. “Whatever his followers may tell you—whatever they may believe—Alvarr wants power.”

“The Cauldron of Ceridwen will not make him a King,” Gaius said.

“But will it not give him the means to achieve any goal?” Blaise taunted.

“Prince Arthur!” a knight called from the dungeon anteroom. “Sir Lamorack approaches the gate.”

Arthur signaled the knight that he’d be there in a moment. “Maybe he has some good news,” Arthur sighed. “Since we failed. We’ll,” he said apologetically to Blaise, “we’ll figure something out.”

As soon as Arthur was out of earshot, Gaius said to Blaise, “You’re lying. Why did you need to talk to Morgana?”

“I wanted to know what she knew about Alvarr—she is helping him, is she not?”

“Yes,” Merlin said, feeling vaguely challenged.

“And you thought confronting her would accomplish what?” Gaius said.

“’Confronting’?” Blaise repeated with consternation. “Alvarr is shrewd and charismatic—he spews half-truths and _lies_. If she is helping him, maybe she’s misinformed or misguided. But no,” Blaise said, noting the affronted, uncomfortable stances Gaius and Merlin had developed. “That’s not what you two think. You think she’s culpable. Why? And why would Alvarr seek _her_ out, of all people?”

Merlin didn’t know how to respond. Gaius stood taciturn, yet Merlin discerned an internal turmoil, invisible to anyone who didn’t know Gaius. He wondered if Blaise noticed it.

“She has magic,” Blaise affirmed.

“Yes,” Merlin whispered.

“But rather than think she’s in danger, you think she is a danger?” Blaise accused. “All these years, you’ve stood by, passive and compliant—”

“You know nothing,” Gaius snapped. “Morgana condemned herself with her own actions—I tried to protect her!”

“Do tell,” Blaise sneered.

“Hey!” Merlin said. “Gaius did try to help—we both did.” A guard peeked down the corridor at the raised voices, and the three of them shifted silently until he vanished again.

“Tell me the relevant part, Gaius,” Blaise mocked.

Gaius stared back at Blaise with an expression both contemptuous and contrite. “Morgana chose her side, Blaise. Goodwill won’t change that.” He walked away with a weary resignation, while Merlin lingered, wanting to say something but unable to figure out what. The whole conversation, like a whirlwind of disturbed dust, had choked on itself when he wasn’t looking.

Blaise retreated to the back of his cell, turning away from Merlin to gaze out the tiny barred window near the ceiling. Merlin could do nothing but trot after Gaius, with one glance back as he realized that Blaise was afraid. 

~

 

One of Uther’s wardrobes had a false bottom. The spell was written on a leaf of paper that had been folded once and inserted between two pages of a leather-bound commonplace book. Morgana had tucked the spell against her breast because she couldn’t risk removing the book—that, she had re-wrapped in its linen, replaced beneath the jewelry in the ornately-wrought metal box, returned the box to the wardrobe’s compartment, and reorganized everything as she had found it.

So.

How to contact Alvarr.

Morgana paced Uther’s chambers. With knights swarming endlessly, it was dangerous for Alvarr to move through Camelot, and difficult for her to leave. She stopped, hearing shuffling armor and muted words on the other side of the door. Gwen entered.

“How are you?” Gwen asked.

“Fine,” Morgana said, rushing forward. “What happened? Who was he?”

“He’s a sorcerer from Cameliard, his name is Blaise, and he’ll be executed tomorrow.”

“Naturally,” Morgana slumped into a chair.

“He didn’t say why he was in your chambers,” Gwen continued, opening the curtains that Morgana had hastily closed. “But Arthur thinks he’s trying to protect Cameliard.”

“Sneaking into my room while I’m sleeping protects the kingdom of Cameliard?”

Gwen shrugged. “It’s what Arthur thinks. The King thinks Blaise is helping Alvarr.”

“That would make more sense,” Morgana muttered, wondering if Blaise had a message for her—that she’d never get because Blaise would be locked in the dungeons until his execution. Tomorrow. She cursed herself for screaming like a frightened child.

“He doesn’t have your bracelet,” Gwen said.

“What?” Morgana came back to the moment. She looked down at the wrist Gwen indicated, and realized she was unconsciously rubbing it. She shook her hands and stood.

“You don’t have to stay in Uther’s chambers, you know,” Gwen said.

“Inviting me to your house?” Morgana said glibly—and instantly realized a possible plan for getting out of the castle. “Yes, Gwen, why don’t I?”

“My house isn’t safe—you’re well-guarded here.”

“Just like our prisoner,” Morgana mumbled disconsolately.

“I think he used to know Gaius,” Gwen offered, but got no response, so she tried another tactic: “Lady Vawse is hosting a minstrel this afternoon.”

“Lady Vawse would.”

“I’m certain you’d be welcome.”

“Of course—I’m the King’s ward.”

“So you’ll go?” Gwen asked hopefully.

“Listen to ladies talk ad nauseam, yet say nothing?”

“It’s something,” Gwen commented. She tried again: “The Royal Gardens are still in bloom—fresh air can do wonders—or we could visit the town market—”

“Gwen” Morgana said. “I appreciate . . .” she stopped, a thought occurring to her. The town market would be teeming with guards and rife with suspicion, but it was also one of the few places where anyone of any class could reasonably be found without provoking too many questions.

“You’re right, Gwen—I’m driving myself mad in here. The market sounds lovely.” 

~

 

Neither Merlin nor Gaius spoke on the way to Gaius’s chambers—they didn’t dare. And as soon as Gaius entered his chambers, he halted, jolting Merlin. In the middle of the room stood Uther, brooding over the contents of one of Gaius’s shelves. They waited awkwardly as Uther casually swept his gaze around to them.

“I see you helped escort the sorcerer to his cell. I thought he wasn’t a danger to Camelot.”

“He’s not,” Merlin said. Too abruptly. “Sire. My lord,” he retracted, putting on his best air of deference. “Blaise didn’t hurt us when we were in Cameliard—even though he knew who we were—and we were easier targets—why would he come all this way now?”

“And yet he did,” Uther eyed Merlin with unveiled suspicion.

“Perhaps Arthur’s right about the Priestess,” Gaius said. “Blaise was never selfish or cowardly.”

“He was also never a supporter of magic, as I recall,” Uther said. “Regardless what brought him, he is here and Camelot’s laws are clear. The sorcerer will be executed, along with any collaborators. Is this understood?”

“Sire,” Gaius bowed his head.

“Yes,” Merlin said.

Uther did not leave—he evaluated them, making Merlin uneasy. Gaius seemed unshaken; still, Merlin tried to think of another argument to waylay Uther’s suspicions—or appease his intransigence, but outside killing Blaise . . .

“Blaise came all this way,” Uther prodded, “for one servant?”

“I’m not going back to Cameliard,” Merlin insisted, staring at Uther, daring the King to doubt his intentions. “A Priestess doesn’t get to decide where my home is.”

Uther responded with a muted _hm_. He surveyed Merlin head to toe, and left with no further word to either of them. As soon as Merlin had closed the door, Gaius exhaled.

“We have to get Bl—” Merlin said.

“Blaise knew the risks,” Gaius said. “We have bigger problems in Alvarr and Morgana.”

 ~

 

Arthur heard footsteps padding behind him—not Merlin’s fumbling gait, nor Morgana’s restless tread—and anyway, Morgana was in the town market with Gwen, watched discreetly by two knights. Caradoc, Arthur concluded, right as she caught up with him.

She wore servant’s attire—a woman’s this time—somehow acquired from somewhere—her hair wrapped in rags. But on her feet were her own road-scuffed boots. He made no comment, leading the way down a set of stairs, both acting like she was accompanying him on his orders. In the cold corridors that ran like catacombs beneath the city, one lone pair of guards bowed their heads to Arthur as he and Caradoc passed.

Arthur grabbed a torch, as did Caradoc, and continued along until they hit a corner, the turn blocked by a rusting iron gate. Through the gate the next section of corridor was covered in cobwebbed shelves along both walls, musty books exuding slow rot, urns, coffers, casks, chests, and dusty candelabra that would fetch a fine price in any market that Caradoc had ever visited. Arthur ignored all of it, heading to the second gate at the opposite end.

This gate demarked a little cell containing a lone stone pedestal upon which sat a small wooden, locked chest.

“Interesting vault,” Caradoc said, testing one of the bars as she shut the gate. Not often used, but sound as the day it was made.

“You need to get Blaise out of here,” Arthur said. He threw her a ring of keys and paced the room. Caradoc held up one key, then another until Arthur nodded and said, “To the dungeon. Just make sure you’re out of Camelot by morning.”

“How many guards?” Caradoc pulled up her skirt, revealing black trousers beneath, and attached the keys to her belt. She shook her hips and moved some, to see how much noise the keys made, and whether a bulge was obvious on the servant dress.

“The King will want at least two in the dungeon corridor to watch Blaise, and two in the anteroom.”

“And guards at the dungeon’s entrance, I assume,” Caradoc said.

Arthur nodded.

“How many guards will you actually station?”

“I can argue that Alvarr is the greater threat,” Arthur paused, staring at the wall. “But I can only cut it down to four.”

“Who?” Caradoc asked.

“Who?” Arthur repeated, not understanding the question.

“Who will the guards be? Will you post men who were with you in Cameliard?”

“No. They might recognize you.”

“Your men can’t be trusted?”

“Of course they can!” Arthur said, with an unconvincing overemphasized certainty. “But I can’t ask them to betray their King. I won’t.”

“May I have Merlin’s help, then?”

“No, I need Merlin seen and above suspicion.” Arthur approached Caradoc gently. “Anna assured me you had your ways,” he cajoled.

“Anna doesn’t make things harder for me,” Caradoc replied.

“Blaise’s life—“

“I know,” Caradoc snapped. She leaned against the gate and crossed her arms. “At least let me know the names of the guards you post—all four of them.”

Arthur agreed.

“And I may enlist Madoc—he’s already spotted me,” Caradoc said, pre-empting Arthur’s objection. “And I’ll need money.”

“However much you want. But I’d rather not compromise my men.”

“Then you compromise our chances of success,” Caradoc turned her back to Arthur and wrenched open the gate.

“Caradoc?” Arthur said softly.

She turned around, impatient.

“How do you know if someone’s been enchanted?” he asked.

Caradoc reclosed the gate. “You mean the Lady Morgana?”

Wordlessly, Arthur confirmed the question.

“Is she acting strangely?” Caradoc asked.

“For Morgana?” Arthur said. “No.”

“Then I’d say it’s unlikely. But Blaise is the better person to ask.”

Arthur nodded imperceptibly—just enough to let her know he’d heard her. He gazed around at the near-empty cell in which they stood; he glanced past Caradoc at the detritus cluttering the space between the two gates; he thought about the Purge—was that where all this came from? He unlocked the box on the pedestal and opened it, trying to remember. The Crystal of Neyetid lay on the red cushioning inside. Camelot had been against magic his entire life, yet the subject was distant, historical even. He’d grown up during the Purge, but as soon as he was old enough to comprehend what _Purge_ entailed, everyone’s words changed. “The Purge” became simply, “the Law.”

“Prince Arthur,” Caradoc said. “Anna is Leodogran’s heir, Lady Morgana is just Uther’s ward. There’s no benefit to enchanting her.”

“Not even to help him steal?” Arthur said, pointing to the Crystal. “This is what he was after last time, but now?” Arthur closed the lid. “Now he wants a spell that may not really exist—except he hasn’t actually tried to get it, has he?” He walked the width of the room once and, as a frustrated afterthought, relocked the box. “What’s Alvarr’s game?”

“Power,” Caradoc replied. “He’ll be camped nearby—even if he’s still here in Camelot—because he likes to think of himself as King of a travelling kingdom, and he can’t do that without his retinue. But he’s also flexible—that rock can’t help him anymore, so he found something that can.”

“So why didn’t he show?”

“Somebody warned him? Or his scheme is more complicated than we thought—his accomplice is new. I didn’t recognize her.”

Arthur pondered this.

“Sometimes,” Caradoc offered, “information gets lost when the messenger doesn’t understand it. You could personally re-question everyone about Alvarr’s visits.”

“Yes, that would be wonderful,” Arthur scoffed. “Assuming they’d all be forthcoming about what they know.” As if we have time. He composed himself. “Thank you, Caradoc. You may go.”

With a dip of her head, Caradoc obeyed.

 

~*~ 

Merlin popped a piece of pheasant in his mouth and wiped his hand on Arthur’s bedsheets. Arthur would make him clean every textile in the room when this was over, but so what. He glared at Madoc, stationed by the door, and fluffed the pillows by punching them. He tossed the blankets up so that the bed was fully covered and thus technically made.

“So are you my personal guard?” Merlin approached the table. “Making sure I stay put and behave?” Damn Arthur—there were far too many threats at the moment to be confined with menial chores.

“No, Sire,” Madoc replied. “I am to guard the Prince’s chambers and ensure that no one unsavory enters.”

“Congratulations, Madoc,” Merlin tore a small loaf of bread in half (Arthur had barely touched his dinner). “That almost didn’t sound rehearsed.”

Madoc shifted uneasily; Merlin tore the bread again, sat down in Arthur’s chair, put his feet up on the table next to the plates, and slowly chewed the bread as he scowled at Madoc.

“What did Arthur say, really?” Merlin asked, his mouth full.

Madoc hesitated. “The Prince said not to heed your insolence.”

Merlin barked a laugh and threw Madoc a piece of bread. Madoc caught it one-handed.

“Sorry, Sire,” Madoc tossed it back to Merlin. “I’m on duty.”

“Come on, Madoc, why does Arthur want me locked up here?”

“I don’t question the Prince’s orders, Sire.”

“But you do know something,” Merlin leaned forward. “And you know, if you have to call me ‘Sire,’ then you have to obey me. So I order you to tell me.”

“No I don’t. I was just being polite.”

Merlin flopped backward in the chair, unable to suppress a grin—his frustration with Arthur tangling with his amusement at Madoc’s discomfort.

“All right,” Merlin stood, “if you don’t answer me, I’ll escape out the window. Then what will you do? Will you ignore your duty as my bodyguard by letting me out into the dangerous night? Or will you follow me, abandoning your post and letting unsavory characters enter Arthur’s chambers?”

Madoc flinched.

Merlin stepped backward, toward the window. “And why are you the only guard here?” Another step.

A small, inarticulate noise escaped Madoc’s lips.

“Okay,” Merlin turned.

“No!” Madoc rushed forward.

“Are you guarding me?” Merlin demanded.

“No—sort of—not exactly,” Madoc stuttered. “You need a knight’s word. To vouch for you.”

“Why?” Merlin didn’t like where this was going. “And why you, of all knights—no offense.”

“Because I know Caradoc is here,” Madoc said, more confident now that he’d committed to talking. “She’s breaking Blaise out of the dungeons and bringing him here.”

With that, Merlin burst past Madoc—who tried to grab him, protesting, _Sire-you’re-supposed-to-wait-here!_ —through the doors and down the corridor, Madoc stumbling after.

 ~

 

Gwen reluctantly left Morgana’s chambers. She smiled wanly at the two guards posted at the door, but they gave her no notice. The knights posted throughout Camelot always made her feel simultaneously invisible and exposed, even when things weren’t going wrong. Tonight, their presence was comforting, but still, she’d have rather stayed with Morgana.

Gwen reached the end of the corridor, and as she turned to go down the stairs, a serving girl—ewer and ladle in hand—mounted the last step. They barely avoided a collision.

“Oh excuse me!” the girl said, swinging the ewer to one side so that it didn’t crush between them. She had the ladle hooked around one thumb, and it clattered against the ewer as a tiny stream of water spilled over the lip. “I didn’t expect anyone up at this hour.”

“It’s not that late,” Gwen said, trying unsuccessfully to place the girl. “But I don’t normally see anyone up here at this time, either.”

“I’d rather not be,” the girl confided. “Can’t let our valiant protectors die of thirst, can we?” She smiled past Gwen at Morgana’s two knights.

“Of course,” Gwen said uncertainly. “I . . . had better let you get on with it.”

“Thank you. Nice dress,” the girl said.

As she brushed by, Gwen said, “Wait—what’s your—I mean, if I may—I don’t really know many of the other servants—but—what’s your name?”

“Bridget,” she replied. “You’re Guinevere, Morgana’s maid?”

“Gwen."

“You have my sympathies—the King’s ward must be a handful.”

“What? No.” Gwen had never thought of Morgana as anything but friendly and kind, even if she was distant these days. “Morgana’s not like that.”

“But you have to do everything, don’t you? You’re her only servant?”

“Well, yes, but—” Presented with Bridget’s disbelief and pity, Gwen found it hard to explain Morgana’s distaste for certain habits of the nobility, not to mention the nature of their friendship. Gwen felt as though she were justifying herself, and tried not to resent Bridget for the—admittedly—reasonable question.

“Morgana’s different,” Gwen simply stated.

“Oh. Well,” Bridget searched Gwen’s face for—something, and Gwen felt rejected, dismissed. “Good for you,” Bridget continued. “And really, nice dress—we should all have such niceties if we want them.” She tipped her head at Gwen and headed toward the guards.

Gwen, with nothing else to do, descended the stairs, an anxious worm gnawing her innards.

~

 

Across the darkness, toward the dungeon entrance, Caradoc surreptitiously made her way—as ineptly as she could. Unless both guards were imbeciles, they could not help but notice her conspicuous display of discretion.

“I must speak with Sir Dafyd on an urgent matter,” she whispered to them.

“Sir _Dafyd_ is it?” the guard on her right snorted.

“I doubt Sir Dafyd is interested in your kind of urgency,” the other guard said curtly.

The first guard chuckled. “Maybe he hasn’t met the right urgent damsel,” he said, eying Caradoc. She wore a tightly-laced bodice, a skirt that fell to her calves, and a pair of threadbare slippers, all of which she’d bought from several townswomen. The only thing of her own that she wore was her pendant, jammed inside her cleavage. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders. The first guard was adequately taken—Sir Yvo, she concluded, which made the other—irritated as much by his partner’s lack of deportment as Caradoc’s presence—Sir Silvius.

“Now Sir Eban,” Yvo winked—

“—is married,” Silvius said.

“As everyone knows but him,” Yvo said.

Caradoc pulled a small coinpurse from her belt and pressed it into Yvo’s hand. Silvius cursed between clenched teeth, but looked away, scanning the shadows of the courtyard.

“If you are asking truly,” Caradoc leaned close to Yvo, “I must say I am here for Sir Dafyd.”

“Your story would be better if Dafyd were more careful with his predilections,” Yvo tucked the coinpurse beneath his belt. “But who am I to judge.”

Caradoc gave him a warm smile and traced his arm with her finger as she passed. Inside, a wide flight of stairs, iron railing on one side and stone wall on the other, led to the dungeon antechamber, in the middle of which sat a small table with two mugs, a half-played chess game, and three unoccupied chairs. A knight leaned against the entrance to the main cell corridor, rolling dice in his hand.

“Sir Eban?” Caradoc called coquettishly.

The knight—neither startled nor surprised—threw the dice at a scurrying rat.

“No,” Sir Dafyd said.

“Oh.” Caradoc mustered a show of cluelessness and disappointment as she approached him. Dafyd, irritated, stared her down, and she acquiesced, shuffling timidly.

A thud in the corridor behind Dafyd.

A sibilant scrape—metal against stone—and Dafyd turned, reaching for his sword—which Caradoc grabbed first. She quickly kicked him behind his knees and he buckled to the floor.

She pressed the sword to his throat. “You are alone at the mercy of a powerful sorcerer,” she told him. “Do _exactly_ as I say.”

Outside Blaise’s cell, Sir Eban lay unconscious, and Sir Dafyd could no longer hide his fear. Caradoc made Dafyd open the cell and strip, under Blaise’s menacing silence. They had Dafyd strip Eban as well, and put both knights in the cell. Blaise told Dafyd that if he spoke before morning his tongue would turn to tar.

Once they’d donned the armor, Caradoc and Blaise hastened up the stairs to contend with the upper guards—only to run into Merlin, Sir Madoc breathless behind him

“You used magic!” Madoc said in disbelief.

“Where are the guards?” Caradoc asked.

“They may have chased a walking cloak,” Merlin said with a grin.

“You used magic!” Madoc repeated.

“I had to, Madoc,” Merlin said. Caradoc scoured the courtyard, hissing in consternation at the approach of two other knights. She smacked Blaise’s arm with the back of her hand, and both stood to attention. In the armor and helmets, any passer-by would’ve thought them the officially posted guards. Madoc looked to Merlin; Merlin, knowing it was too late to hide, sought only an excuse for their presence as the two knights met up with them and removed their helmets.

“You dragged Madoc into this?” Sir Taran demanded.

“Madoc dragged you into this?” Caradoc asked.

“Where are the guards?” Sir Cadoc glanced around.

“Locked in a privy,” Madoc said sheepishly, without elaborating.

“Eban and Dafyd are in a cell,” Caradoc said. “ _Alive_ ,” she added impatiently, responding to Taran’s glare.

“How’d you get past them?” Madoc asked.

“Bribery,” Caradoc said, grabbing Blaise and heading toward a castle door.

“No you didn’t,” Madoc insisted.

“Madoc,” Taran said, keeping pace with Caradoc, “stop being young.”

“Where are you going?” Merlin asked, trying to get Blaise and Caradoc to pause.

“Arthur’s chambers,” Caradoc said. “Where you’re supposed to be.”

Sir Cadoc grabbed her shoulder. “You can’t—the King will be there. And a patrol is on its way—”

Alarm bells rang as a dozen knights breached the courtyard. The six of them—Merlin and Madoc, Caradoc and Blaise, Cadoc and Taran—had barely enough time to duck into the shadows before the patrol noticed the missing guards.

~

 

Two guards—neither Madoc—stood at attention outside his door. Arthur suppressed the urge to run the rest of the way, counting his steps to keep them neutral as he entered his chambers. Uther sat at the table, the remains of Arthur’s dinner still scattered, the hearth cold, and candles flickering all about.

“What’s—?” Arthur said.

“Morgana is missing,” Uther announced.

Arthur’s throat clamped shut; he whirled around to order a search.

“Arthur!” Uther stopped him.

“We have to find her!”

Uther held Arthur in a gaze of stone, angry and indignant.

“That’s why you increased patrols,” Arthur realized a search was already underway. “Why didn’t you tell me?” his own anger grew. “How long has she been gone?”

Uther tapped his fingers on the table—once—rigid finger following rigid finger, a drawn-out pantomime of deliberation. To Arthur, the room seemed suddenly, insidiously empty.

“Where’s Merlin?” he asked.

“An excellent question,” Uther seethed.

Arthur took a desperate, conciliatory step forward, clinging to the collapsing situation as best he could. “Merlin has nothing to do with Morgana’s disappearance, I swear to you,” he said. The words were barely out—Uther unmoved—when Sir Lamorack burst in.

“The prisoner has escaped!” Lamorack gasped.

“I know Merlin had nothing to do with that,” Arthur said.

“Nothing to do with what?” Merlin asked cautiously, appearing in the doorway behind Lamorack. He carried a bucket of water, and beside him Madoc’s eyes flit from Arthur to Uther to Lamorack.

“Where have you been?” Arthur snapped.

“I wanted to scrub things down,” Merlin said. “I needed water.”

“Arrest him,” Uther ordered Lamorack.

“Sire!” Arthur protested.

“Sire,” Madoc stepped forward. “Your pardon, I beg, Sire, but he just went to the well and came back. He never left my sight, and we stayed out of the way of the patrols.”

“Merlin’s done nothing wrong,” Arthur said. “You can’t arrest someone on a whim.”

Uther bolted from the chair with enough force to send it tumbling. “Morgana is missing,” he yelled. “Sorcerers infest the land like rats, and he,” pointing at Merlin, “is the known cohort of one. Now get him out of here.”

“Come on,” Lamorack quietly ordered Madoc. Arthur stewed silently, glaring at Uther—so Madoc took the bucket from Merlin, placed it on the floor, and gently escorted Merlin out by the elbow.

Arthur and Uther remained locked in the moment until Arthur said,

“You act like you don’t trust me.”

“You give me reason not to,” Uther said.

“You think I’ve been enchanted.”

“No, Arthur, I don’t. That’s what concerns me. Now find Alvarr.”

~

 

Bridget truculently led Morgana through a disused portion of the castle. As a child, Morgana had heard stories of the peoples before the Romans—and the Romans—and Vortigern. Camelot was Uther’s pride, but it wasn’t his creation, and older, ruined parts of it remained, buried and forgotten.

They were underground. Bridget passed a fork that would have taken them to the Crystal of Neyetid, going instead down a short, decrepit stairwell, at the bottom of which lay a solid stone wall and a wooden chest.

Bridget pulled the chest outward, exposing the deliberate hole near the floor—just large enough to crawl through.

“My noble lady-liege,” Bridget indicated the hole.

Morgana crawled through quickly, thankful she had donned trousers and boots. Blackness. She stood carefully, arcing her hands around to find the wall and ceiling. With her arms outstretched, her fingers just barely brushed both sides of the tunnel; the uneven rock above her head was barely a hand’s breadth away.

Bridget rustled behind her. “ _Move_.”

Morgana sidled forward a bit and let Bridget pass, keeping her hands on the dagger at one hip and the knife on her other. Bridget hustled along the tunnel, Morgana following by sound until they emerged into rocky underbrush.

“Who’s there?” a man’s voice called. They were in a dried creek bed, and though Morgana could gauge the direction of the voice, she couldn’t see him. Behind her, Camelot loomed, a crisp shadow protruding into the night sky.

“It’s me Hardolf,” Bridget said.

A man stepped forward, wiping a sword. A dead knight lay half-hidden in the brush. Just one of Uther’s men, Morgana reminded herself. Uther’s.

“What happened to your eye?” Hardolf asked Bridget.

“She hit me,” Bridget touched her slightly swollen eye.

“You tried to stab me,” Morgana retorted.

“I was defending myself,” Bridget claimed indignantly.

“Are you stupid,” Morgana asked in disbelief, “or just petty?” The question barely out of her mouth, Hardolf advanced, sword at the ready.

“Don’t—” Morgana drew her dagger, leaving Bridget’s knife on her hip. “I will give this spell to no one but Alvarr.”

“You will give to us,” Hardolf said. “Or we will take it from you.”

Morgana lowered her dagger and stared derisively at Hardolf. He’d come close enough to discern her expression—and by the reflexive curl of his lip, felt slighted. Good.

“Bridget?” Morgana sheathed her dagger. It was not a question.

“She only has half the spell,” Bridget admitted. “The rest is in her head.”

“A prescient precaution,” Morgana said. “I give this spell to _Alvarr_. So, unless you wish to waste more time with petulant grandstanding, I suggest you lead on.”

 

 

_* to be continued *_


End file.
